Synthetic Soul
by Optronyx
Summary: Republic Commando: A new adventure for Delta Squad, set before the Kashyyyk missions. The Confederacy have a new weapon? Bring on the Clone Troopers!
1. Prologue

Disclaimers: Ah, how I wish I owned Star Wars. Perhaps that way I'd be able to correct the new trilogy and bring order to the galaxy. But alas! I do not, and so I state it here that I'm not trying to make a profit of any sort. Don't sue me, Mr. Lucas; I am but a poor barstard.

Prologue:

A rumble from one of the lower decks was the first thing that awoke the trooper designated RC-1214. It had been nearly two hours since his squad had been relieved of duty aboard the Introspection, and though he had just over half an hour left of his free-time before he was required on deck once more, he had a nasty feeling in his neurological implants that something was going wrong.

Glancing rapidly around his quarters, he leapt to his feet, taking in the pearl-silver walls and the harshly coloured metallic floor. He darted forward to the table and grasped his helmet, fitting it over his blunt facial features as rapidly as he could muster in his current dreary state. With a hiss, he felt the atmosphere around his face being purified, and a friendly hum from the onboard computer reassured his weathered nerves that all would be all right. He still hadn't found what he was looking for. An ominous lump in his Adam's apple was beginning to throb in protest to the sudden increase in stress.

He counted. One, two three, four minutes. There was nothing for it, either it was his imagination or an engine stall from one of the propulsion drives. Glancing up at the com-screen welded roughly to his wall he took care to notice the flashing green light, indicating the ship's hyperdrive was in operation. The trooper's stomach lurched. _An engine failure? In Hyperspace?_ Perhaps not. The very fact that he was still alive showed that an engine failure was out of the question, and so his mind methodically began to search for other reasons to attribute to his waker. Another minute passed, and RC-1214 felt his calm returning. It seemed that his last mission had left him paranoid.

As though in response to his state of calm, an ear-splitting banshee-like scream tore through the entire deck like a fist through paper. One-two-one-four felt an incredible surge of force as his body was flung backwards onto his bunk. The floor shuddered angrily and separate moans of angst from the very walls around him rattled wave upon wave of torment into the trooper's skull. He knew what was going wrong now was deadly serious, and it wasn't to do with the inner-workings of the ship. All around him faerie sparks began to fly, eagerly reaching out, their hot spikes lusting for something to come in contact with. With a single fluid and rapid movement, 14's already gloved the hand flashed down to his weapons holster and found what he was looking for, before bringing up his battered rifle to his face. The rifle was non other than the DC-17m. Ion conversion pulse shells: four rounds worth. This gun was a sign of his authority among his brothers. This gun represented his superior ability. This gun represented his status of being a commando unit; the republic's elite fighting force. Faster, stronger and more intelligent, it was RC-1214 and his squad that the republic relied on to get the job done with the utmost efficiency. _This gun_ was the reason why he was still alive.

"A fat lot of good this gun is going to do me now." He muttered under his breath whilst grabbing a further ten rounds and buckling them to his utility belt. By now the warning klaxon was in full operation, blaring out a purely metallic noise for all who cared to listen to it. Not that anyone was however- the explosion had shaken the ship, and already the hive of corridors and rooms were alive with ant-like efficiency. Troopers raced down the corridors yelling commands whilst officers attempted to contact the bridge, all the while with the tearing sound in the background that a one kilometre Venator Star Destroyer shouldn't make.

The intercom crackled into life, spitting static around the corridors. There was a slight intake of breath, and someone spoke. The words were simple, yet to those on board it was a catalyst for more chaos:

"This is Captain Maliron, of the Introspection. The Hail protocol is now in operation. Please proceed to your posts."

One-four swallowed loudly. Hail protocol confirmed his fears of an attack- all troops were to man the main gun embankments on the starboard side, and in the case of capture, there was the self destruct to deal with. His swallowed voice returned to his throat, formulated a sentence and was instantly barked out: "You heard the man! All sector 5 troops are to report the gunning deck for immediate cannon deployment. MOVE."

Troopers left right and centre began to dash for the lift, their monochrome suits moving as one in another ant-like buzz.1214 followed the nearest trooper to the door where they encountered their first hold-up- the lift was locked.

"Jammed, sir. The shock waves have caused the magna-seal to malfunction. We could use the override codes though only the captain has that information." Stated the light green clone sergeant in charge of his group, apparently trying to seize his chance to impress when around his superiors. 14 swore under his breath, and reached to his backpack for a demolition charge.

A hand stopped him, gripping his arm just so that he could no-longer reach his charge.

"Hold on there, Prime."

Prime sighed at the sound of his nickname, and felt his spirits rise. At least he needn't do this alone.

"All right there, out of the way numbskulls! Grade-A Leet Haxor COM-ING THROUGH!"

A smile crept over Prime's face. If there was ever anyone to sort out a technical problem, it was Processor. RC-0452 was possibly the finest computer slicer aboard the ship, as well as a close comrade. He watched as the ornately green patterned whiz nonchalantly pushed aside his lesser brothers, unclipping a wire from his belt. One end was quickly slotted into his helmet's left side, whilst another fitted snugly into the e-lock's terminal. A few seconds later, and with a shrill beep, the door's control hissed, and the troops were able to board.

"Main gunner's deck, and step on it- there's a large party of droids that are waiting for me to forcefully deactivate them." Spoke Processor loudly as he unplugged himself from the terminal.

"Look pal, who do you think you are? You barge in, shoving us out of the way like so much scrap, and then act as if you're the only trained trooper on the ship. What are you, a commando unit?" The pea-green sergeant enquired with more than just a touch of annoyance laced into his concord-dawn accent. There was a quiet pause and Prime noticed one of the troopers in the background nudge the other and nod in Processor's direction. 52 turned around and looked the sergeant in the eye.

"What are you, retarded? If you'd bothered to read your goddam briefing you'd know that from my obviously different armour, extra equipment and presence of an actual _personality_ that yes, I am indeed a 'commando unit'." quipped Processor. "I am both without sleep and a highly irritable asshole. And in answer to your question, I think I'm better than you!"

The sergeant stammered, the personality stab has thrown off both him and most troopers in his presence. He tried to formulate some form of witty response, but could only manage an "I" to escape his helmet before being interrupted by a violent shudder, uttered once more by the ship's pressured hull.

"Stow it for now." Interjected Processor to the pea-green sergeant. "We're here."

He was right. The lift raised itself out of the shaft, emerging in the centre of the gunning room. It rose for another half-foot, creating a miniature plateau against the well-polished black floor.

"Everyone out!" Yelled Prime, lifting the DC-17m to his face and stepping off the lift "Get to your guns and prepare to return fire- make them regret ever crossing the Introspection!"

The main port gunner's room revealed itself to be relatively narrow, with just enough room for piles the of ammunition heaped behind the ominous weapon systems. All was eerily silent in the spaces between shots from the 'enemy'. The familiar rumble from the torpedo bays directly beneath were yet to be manned.

Troopers ran to the point defence laser cannons, ramming the explosive packages into the long cylindrical gun emplacements as would navy crew members do with cannons from the sea-borne days of old. With ear splitting roars the cannons lobbed energised death into the void outside, aimed at the circular battle ship.

"We've got 'em, lads. Aim true." Lied Prime. He knew there was little chance of getting out of this- the ship had been caught unawares, seemingly jolted deliberately from Hyperspace. Jolted from Hyperspace in a republic controlled system. They were meant to be safe there- how could they be blamed for not being battle-ready? A quick glance at the console Processor had acquired showed that the shields were down, and likely to stay that way, along with the communication's mast. No calling for help.

"This channel secure?"

"As far as I'm aware, Processor."

"We're... Not going to make it. Are we, Prime?"

"No. Or rather, this ship isn't. The call for evac will be in less than a minute. I'd start slicing that terminal and get the transports ready. We don't want to stay here a minute longer than we need to."

The reply Prime received was one of far less confidence than the one heard in the lift shaft.

"Yes sir."

Processor's fingers were a blur of fluid movement as he ravaged the computer's database in an attempt to ready the express car that ran from the gunning deck to the docking bay. After all, with a ship that was just over 1050 metres in length, these 'side lifts' were the only practical way of moving from point A to point B.

The noise from his 'lightspeed' fingers were not to be heard over the racket made by the cannons and their thunderous rumbling as more of the energised gas was expelled into space.

"Their shields are visible! They must be nearly down!" Yelled one of the troopers, barely concealing his new found tidal wave of hope. "Take that! And THIS!"

Lights flashed and the high pitched warning sirens flickered rapidly indicating the immense strain the cannons were under. Side troops were moving as fast as they could to replace the plasma shells as the used packages slid smoothly out of the rear of the cannons. The power outage was already in the red- there was no time for thinking; just moving package upon package into the available slots. During the fast paced commotion, a single, low note began to burst from the sirens. The sound waves resonated throughout the cavernous gun room, changing everything into a perfect vibrating speaker, allowing what the troopers referred to as the 'bad beep' to be heard with crystal clarity.

"We can't! We were going to WIN!" Yelled the trooper who was manning the gun, all hope draining from his voice like water down a plug. He frantically pulled his trigger, his body shaking as shock began to take hold. The call for evacuation and the completion of the protocol had come. "Going to win!"

"Prime, the side lift's on its way. It'll be here any second." Processor informed his batch brother, ignoring the trooper's yells of horror. No reply came.

"Trooper! Get a hold of yourself and loose the trigger finger. Remember back in the pods when..." Prime's voice had no effect, as the traumatised trooper began an almost child like scream as he began frantically pushing buttons. His hands slammed on his control console in frustration as another poorly placed shot missed its target. Slammed a second. Slammed a third. His shaking fingers found an inappropriate target. Prime watched the events unfurl in seeming slow motion as his subordinate inadvertently pressed the shield release button. In the split second that the shield glass flickered off, a burning red bolt of energy managed to breach the gap in front of the gun, turning it upright in a kaleidoscope of fiery heat. Further yells of protest were quelled as the clone's body was flung backwards, hitting the wall with a grim sounding crunch. Prime felt his heart wrench and quickly shrugged off the guilt. Barking an order at the remaining troopers, he ushered them to the lift doors.

"Lift's here. Time to flee, heroes." Proclaimed Processor

The republic commandos and their followers piled into the confined metallic box that had drawn up behind the blast doors, and rested their rifles by their sides. The bad bleep was now laced with a deceptively smooth female voice declaring a reactor leak.

"Punch it."

The carrier sped into action, plummeting down the narrow shaft at tremendous speed and gaining momentum at a shocking rate. They left the now deserted gunner's room far behind them as flames began to violently erupt like a Roman candle from overhead piping. Prime's head reeled at the thought of how close they were cutting it, feeling his blood pressure rise. _A few more seconds and we can access the shuttles._

The blast doors slid open, hissing to a stop to reveal the grand open space of the hangar. The ceiling was home to thick, iron gates, attached to great wheels of metal that drew them back majestically. Rearing iron pillars plummeted down from the roof as horrendous industrial mockeries of trees. Fighters were said to line the walls, eagerly awaiting the joy of the fight, whilst a hundred oily-armoured technicians ran in a frenzy to prepare them for their battle hungry pilots. _They should all be scrambled by now. Attempting to save the ship. _

They weren't.

Prime tried to assess the situation- the fighters lay still. None had managed to move. A glance up showed that the hangar gates hadn't even been opened, and a quick scan of the area showed a mass of dead bodies already succumbing to the hungry flames. Prime sharply took in the smell of burning flesh and choked with both disgust and realisation. _We've been lied to. We were going to die all along... The captain knew it... We never had a chance._

Prime dropped to his knees, and raised his gun to his face. DC-17m. Ion conversion pulse shells: four rounds worth. "And a fat lot of good this gun is going to do me now."

Prime ignored the shouting of his comrades. He ignored their cries. He sat; perfectly still, oblivious to all around him. He was alone. Alone in the only world he ever knew.

Someone ran forward past his curled form, and he glimpsed quick, separate flashes of laser fire around him.

"Droids! Take COVER!" Were the last words that the Republic Commando RC-1214, nicknamed "Prime" ever heard.


	2. Explosive Farewells

The first true chapter! Thanks to all who have been patient enough for me to post this, as I know a lot of you hate waiting. (Even if it is a week.) Once again, I don't own Star Wars and am not plotting to make money from this, so Mr. Lucas can pack away his lawyers. Read and review everyone- it's nice to know if this fanfic's wanted or not!

Chapter 1: Explosive Farewells.

"I'm tellin' ya, Onyx. The guy's a nut," Proclaimed Scope, out of breath, as he attempted to keep up with the clone in front of him. "You know how Shrapnel tends to be absent minded," he gulped another breath of air. "when it comes to anything that isn't about to explode. He accidentally wiped the data core, and now _HE's_ gotten angry."

"Double-you tee eff? So what you're trying to tell me is that Shrapnel's having a tantrum over something he did that's his own fault? Zomgosh. That bizatch needs me to channel some pwnage into his neural processors." Chipped in the dark green and black patterned clone to the right of Onyx. The troopers proceeded to dash down the well-lit silver corridor, and upon rounding one of the smoothly curved corners, they reached Delta Dorm.

"Not quite Shrapnel having a tantrum, Hax. Not quite..."

The three commandos stared onwards into a scene of pure anarchy. Tables were upturned, and there were broken pieces of weaponry and empty shells littering the floor like some form of grim snowfall. Most of the maintenance droids were already attempting to clean up some of the debris, whilst others were attempting to reconstruct parts of the wall that had chunks blown out of them. In the middle of all the bedlam was a red-patterned commando unit. Unlike Scope's neat red colour scheme, the red paint used for decoration seemed almost splattered across this soldier's front, as if he were the victim in an accident involving a chain saw and several unsuspecting innocent bystanders.

Above the walking gore-fest was another black trooper, with various hints of yellow markings. This trooper's position was not on a balcony or any usual form of elevation however, but was attached to the ceiling with his legs spread out like a great black spider. He hung there with the aid of what looked to be a ridiculously over-stylised set of 'gothic' grappling hooks, and stayed perfectly still. Only the blue technical read-outs moved on the inside of his helmet faintly to indicate brain activity.

"Just come down, Shrapnel! I swear; I won't do _anything_!" called the red sniper, his voice deep and gruff, with a thin mist of deadly sarcasm. It was the kind that was debatable as to what its true intent was, whether for good or not. Either way, the sarcasm seemed to pass straight over the ceiling-borne Shrapnel, who promptly let off a rumble of static from his helmet that reminded the onlooking troopers disturbingly of a snake's hiss.

"The spider waits for the prey to come to _IT_, Sev. I won't come down until you drop that ECD grenade you have behind your back."

"Better'd shut it, wise-guy. I may just chuck a thermal instead."

The three black troopers witnessing this incredible war of wit looked at each other, and despite having helmets, rolled their eyes in unison. Ever since Gamma Squad had been stationed with the Deltas there had been some nasty skirmishes between the group's members: a factor that the Kaminoans hadn't accounted for. The arguments were mainly to do with Sev and Shrapnel, or with Fixer generally complaining about the lack of discipline when it came to Gamma Squad's lacklustre approach to tidying their quarters. Of course, when Scorch's bunk was beginning to look similar to a scrap yard and Sev's was beginning to look like a bizarre museum of enemy scalps (Which Fixer was beginning to believe it was) he managed to turn a blind eye and carry on with his computer hacking.

Banishing these thoughts from his mind, Onyx tried to seize at least some control of the situation and made a half-hearted gesture towards Sev.

"Come off it Sev. You're breaking protocol blowing up the quarters. Save your ammunition for something that truly counts- like melting droid exoskeletons."

Sev's gaze fixed itself on the newcomers- Onyx, Scope and Hax. He snorted loudly to indicate is disapproval of being ordered by someone from a different squad.

"He wiped my kill tracker," he replied simply. Scope decided to pipe in:

"It was an accident! He didn' wanna annoy you!"

Onyx and Hax got a distinct sense of Sev silently sniggering behind his visor, and couldn't help smiling at his dedication to his enemy's body-count.

"Ju can always start again, lol." Added Hax, his computer dialect providing a surreal edge to the conversation.

"I intend to," growled Sev. "... By making sure that my first entry is HIM."

"Pfft. You'll have to catch me first."

The three Gamma Squad members and Sev glanced around the dorm- Shrapnel was nowhere to be seen. An awkward pause followed.

Hax broke the silence: "Fierfek. How the hell does he _do_ that?"

There was another embarrassing pause.

"Hax?

"... Yers?"

"Did you just speak rationally?"

"Erm... No?"

"Just checking," Onyx replied. "Just checking..."

xxx

"Yes, Forty-two, I understand."

I wasn't often the 'RC-1138' had a chance to stand before Advisor. He had only previously met Forty-two on a couple of occasions, and all had been brief, though nonetheless memorable. Rarely meeting did not necessarily mean they were apart, however- through every mission that 38's squad had been on, Advisor had sat there, handing ever useful instructions via the com-link The thought_ 'Thus saving all our bacon more often than not..._' flashed through 38's head briefly.

"Good. See these skirmishes stop."

"They shall, though you still don't have the authority to boss me around, Forty-two," chuckled Boss in reply.

"Three-eight, this is _most_ serious. I doubt Gamma Squad's faced anything nearly as scary as Oh-Seven in a fight." Came Advisor's response with a touch of well-trimmed glee.

"Sev? Nah- he'd never do anything too rash. He loves all living creatures, great and small."

At this, both clones let off a loud chuckle at their personal joke, and sat down at the stainless steel desk. Advisor was a special clone- neither a drone nor a commando, nor even an ARC trooper. He was a communications officer, designed for the sole purpose of keeping in contact with Delta Squad and helping them out in the field. If you wanted a squadron of flying death-ships to blow something up whilst on a mission, Forty-two-Advisor-was the one to contact. Naturally, this meant that Advisor had a lot of time on his hands. Though his portable 'office' was full already to the seeming brim with tracking devices, micro-cameras and communication aerials, you could perhaps spot one of many holopapers with half completed crosswords if you looked carefully enough. A diode in the background flashed a bright red warning light. Advisor flicked a switch and it went off.

"Trouble?" Enquired Boss.

"Perhaps, though replacing light bulbs isn't my job." Advisor granted himself another small chuckle.

"It's not often we meet. It's also less often that you share a joke with me. What's wrong?"

Advisor coughed slightly, and typed a few words onto his computer.

"All right then. What's _going_ to go wrong for _me_?" Continued Three-eight. There was no reply. Advisor thrust a holo-message into 38's hands. Three eight didn't open it.

"New mission... infiltration job on a Separatist base. A shipyard, to be precise. The Tapani sector's where you're next headed with your squad." Said Advisor finally.

"No problem; we've infiltrated worse." Thirty eight said with uncertainty.

"I doubt it. The reason for this mission is to sabotage a new hyperdrive tech. The Bothans that provided us with the Intel claim that it's the tech that was responsible for the destruction of the Introspection last week."

Three-eight remained silent. The rest of the office hummed gently, as if to soothe him.

"I understand if you don't wish to do it. I can easily give the job to Gamma Squad, Boss."

Three-eight was taken aback by the use of his nickname, and tried to break the silence. A farely broken and indiscriminate "I...I..." was all he could manage. Boss fell silent and chose to look at the floor; a dead weight in his chest.

"Fourteen was a comrade, wasn't he?" Came the voice from across the table. Right now, Boss could barely tell it was Advisor speaking.

"I saw Prime off when he left." Spoke Boss, and smiled slightly: "Heh, the bugger said he'd be back for afternoon rations... Me and Fixer watched the Introspection launch..." He muttered pathetically. "We'll do it. If only as a mark of respect for him at least."

"And at most?" Enquired Advisor.

"At most we'll do it to piss off Gamma squad."

The two clones shared one last chuckle in each other's presence, and shook hands. Boss straightened his back and performed the Republic Salute:

"Glad to be aboard."

"Of course you are. You'll leave almost immediately- get suited up, Delta-Lead."

Boss exited Advisor's room as quickly as he'd arrived, closed the door behind him, and set off at a brisk pace to the quarters.

xxx

Gamma squad had a full turn out in order to pay their farewells to their clone cousins. Perhaps it was out of sheer rivalry or of some deep-set respect one cannot say, but nevertheless, Onyx, Scope, Shrapnel, Hax and their communications officer 'Cypher' were lined up in the dorm. Cypher shifted slightly and cracked his knuckles: he had the same job as Advisor- communications officer. It was because this was so that he wasn't in the customary colours of the other commandos: a fact that was so very obvious when stood next to the predominantly black Gamma Squad. Onyx was the first to step forward- the now suited-up Boss held out an orange patterned hand of friendship. Onyx didn't take it.

"Just keep your band away from my lads. I can't account for their behaviour if another of your nut cases attacks them," He growled. "That is, of course, if you manage to get back in one piece. I doubt it though."

Boss's worn face split into a smile in return, and his opposition did the same and flashed a wink. Onyx slapped him on the arm and held it there. "Don't hurt them too much, Boss."

In the background stood Delta Squad, with Fixer, Scorch and Sev in their usual coded colours. Fixer was looking with mild interest and Scorch's face was screwed up in concentration. Sev was paying little attention, preferring to tighten a joint on his DC-17m. Scorch nudged him tentatively:

"Izzit me... Or do those two dislike each other?"

In response, Sev slapped a hand to his forehead and hunched his shoulders, and Fixer shook his head in dispair. "They're pod brothers, 62," answered Four-Oh. "They've always been like this."

Scorch paused a second and thought to himself.

"Oh." He replied simply.

Boss turned back to the Deltas, raised his left arm and made a fist:

"Delta Squad- let's form up!"


	3. Glimpses

Welcome to another addition to my fiction! Read and review everyone- you can never have enough reviews! Just to point out- angered really by Fixer's lack of... Anything in particular in the game (Despite him being one of my fave characters) I decided to give him a little bit of added detail. It goes against Star Wars? Do I care? Of course not. It's a Fan-Fic. Of course, I don't own the franchise, yadda yadda- let's get on with it.

Chapter 2- Glimpses

"Thought they'd never let us go," snorted Fixer, tapping away at his handheld. It wasn't often that Four Oh showed humour, but he had his moments. Ninety five percent of the time it was with fiddling with tech when he let his wit fly, preferring to leave the humour to Scorch and Sev. Three-eight, Boss, watched him intently- he oft wondered of his second in command. He spoke little, chose not to socialise and at times almost seemed to be as far removed from humanity as could be physically possible. What made it worse was that he knew Processor. _'Pod brothers, no less_,' thought Boss, and knew that there'd be no approaching Fixer for some time- even if he refused to show his emotions freely.

It was quiet in the hold, for once. Rather than riding in the cockpit or even the quarters, Delta Squad chose to sit in the relative grime of the cargo-hold. It was here that Republic Ship Discipline seemed to cast a blind eye. Mops and buckets lay in corners randomly, despite the obvious fact that maintenance droids didn't require them. The room was of a dull greenish grey hue, due to the odd fact that the walls seemed to automatically secrete a slime-like substance. A substance that (It would seem) can only ever be found in the cargo-hold of every ship in the universe. "Built in grime." Scorch had said as he entered; patting the walls affectionately. "Ships wouldn't be the same without it."

Sev tapped his foot on the floor. The rattle from the metallic paving echoed slightly. A faint dripping could be heard in the background.

"Some trip this is." He grunted; his gravely voice causing Scorch to jump slightly. He moved his red patterned body and clipped is gun to his belt, and looked up at everyone else.

"...got my kill tracker working. It had a back-up all along. Should'na wasted good ammo on that twerp."

The was a pause and he grinned like a shark in a deeply satisfied way to the group: "Probably shouldn't have wasted all that energy hunting him through the air ducts either. _Probably_ cost a fortune in repairs for the air purifiers too. Should never have planted the proxy mines to 'em..."

Fixer's face split slightly with the faintest hint of a smile, whilst Scorch gave an appreciative giggle. Sev caught the look on Forty's face and pressed further.

"What about you, Fixer? You usually have something to chat."

Boss tried hard not to nudge Sev in the side. Tact decidedly wasn't Oh-Seven's best quality. Four-Oh's hunched vulture shoulders loosened a tad and he moved his head away from the handheld's screen.

"Nice ship, really," he responded. He saw the incredulous look Sev gave to him in reply and quickly added "Not the hold, but the cockpit and stuff. It has a twin ION Stream fuel line for the engines."

Again, he caught the look on Sev's face, and gave a careworn sigh: "... Yeah. It's the beam that allows the transmission of the ION pulse from engine to engine to travel without the aid of any form of physical contact."

By now Scorch was looking at him blankly, and Boss had managed a small grin on Fixer's behalf.

"Forget it."

XXX

"HAH! Over my dead body!"

"We'll see. You're not protected against a hack from your own frequency are you?"

Fixer blinked and stopped short. He shuffled in his suit slightly. "Ah."

The two clones were sat next to each other out on the wall of the landing pad. Granted, the weather was never particularly appealing on Kamino, but when all you're used to are thunderous blotches lining the sky, you quickly learn to accept it. It was a 'cheery' day, as Fixer would have put it. That is, it wasn't raining, and the cloud cover wasn't coal-black. Fixer and Processor sat on the edge, their legs dangling almost comically on the side into thin air. Not quite the same as dipping your feet into a stream, but it would do. The pair created quite an image sat next to each other, resembling a pair of infants with games consoles. Processor picked up the conversation again:

"It's easy. All computers operate on a different data encoding frequency, right? Well, if you know the frequency of the computer you're trying to hack, you can patch your own model with a decoy freq. That mimics the other computer's. It should- in theory- allow you to outwit the hackee's computer and grant you access, if you're using the correct code."

Processor paused for dramatic effect, pulling the most cheese-filled grin that he could muster.

"Very nice." Fixer replied solemnly. "Though you don't have my DEF anyway, so how can you hope to duplicate it?"

Processor's grin turned from Cheddar to Wensleydale: "Swiped it from your helmet earlier. All's fair in war!" He added quickly, noting the rare glint in the now murderous Fixer's eye.

"Don't worry, Fix; I'll be kind to your comp. I'll tone down the haxor skills for you. Of course, if you were any other noob I would have sliced your computer already. You should be honoured you lasted so lo- Ah."

"My turn to smile, Processor: my turn to smile," Fixer declared whilst closing his laptop. It gave a smug and silky click as the catch sealed it shut: it almost matched the look of satisfaction riding Four-Oh's face. "I think I remain the 'leet haxor'."

A scowl and a grunt later, Processor grinned: "For now."

"For now."

Four-Oh stood up, his armour clanking slightly. His eyes met the shoreline and he let them surf out along the waves to the azure alien sea. Fixer had green eyes... He was unique in his own way. His green eyes were what set him apart from everyone else. It wasn't just he who had these eyes- Processor had them too, but they didn't have the same deepness to them. His eyes were pit-like: clouded with jungle mystery and adventure, he was, in his own way, unique. No-one had ever noticed, miraculously; he assumed instantly that it was a genetic defect, making him obsolete. An outdated model. _Perhaps useless organic junk?_ He kept his and his brother's eyes quiet, preferring to hide his character away by making himself seem less... there. 'Less human' he'd heard Scorch say at one point. He quietly thought about it to himself; wondering if he should lighten up with Processor. He was, after all, his brother... A rumble from the sea as the foamy waves hit the landing pad drowned out Processor.

"What?"

"I said it's getting to windy! Besides- I want you to teach me how you stopped my slice!"

Fixer smiled, and turned his back on his thought inspiring sea. He placed his helmet over his head, and released a deep, caring sigh:

"All right, noob. Let's be off."

Processor rolled his eyes in response.

"We'll call by the mess for my software."

Fixer nodded and smiled. He stirred slightly when he felt his arm tingle, and realised it was Processor's arm.

"Lighten up, Fix. I'll get you a drink."

He smiled. Somehow, some way, he liked being different.

XXX

"Fixer?"

"Yo. Forty. Snap out of it dude."

Four-Oh jumped and sat up, meeting the eyes of Boss and Scorch: both of whom were now standing close and sporting concerned looks. A deadpan silence performed a reverse echo around the hold, spreading from the four silent troopers. Only the dripping from the far wall could be heard.

"You should stop spending so much time in front of a computer screen, Four-Oh," Scorch said knowingly: "It's ruining your eyesight as well as your stamina."

The green trooper grinned in reply: "D'you have any idea how maternal you sound, Scorch?"

"It's my right as a loving parent." Winked Six-Two. "Besides- commandos don't just doze off like that. What's up with you?"

"Nothing. Lack of sleep is all," retorted Fixer, and shuffled around in his suit again. He felt cold sweat dripping down his back like nails on a blackboard.

"Commandos don't bottle it up either."

"It's NOTHING, SCORCH."

"Delta, we know it's something, and we also have a fair idea of what's up! Now, you can either bottle it up, be miserable this whole journey, or you can at LEAST admit you have a problem and treat us as equals," interjected Boss. "We may not be from the same pod but we're as good as brothers. We're comrades, Fixer. Even better than that: we're friends."

The squad mates all sat on the ammo crates next to the clone computer hacker and waited.

"I didn't want to lose him." Forty spoke quietly. "I didn't think it'd happen. I had so much confidence in him."

"Can't help it," Sev grunted. "That's war, isnit?"

"I know. Just didn't expect it to happen so... soon." Came the reply. It was shaky and childlike- it was hard to believe that it was Fixer talking at all.

"It's all right, Forty," soothed Boss. "You're with Delta Squad. Nothing's going to happen, and that's a promise." Fixer sniffed and looked up. His face showed no sign of moving, yet his deep green eyes let out more than words ever could. He leaned forward and practically winded Boss with an embrace.

"Thanks, Delta-Lead."

Scorch grinned and glanced a knowing look at Sev:

"Fixer? Commandos. Don't. Hug."


	4. Breaking and Entry

And another chapter's up! Thanks for being so patient everyone. If you're new, make sure to review if you like the story. It's always nice to know if you're wanted. Finally decided to get the ball rolling with this chapter, and so the Squad's finally infiltrated the enemy base. Hope you enjoy it! In the meantime, I'm guessing that I hardly need to write this anymore, but I don't own Star Wars or am I trying to make money out of it. Anyhoo- on with the fic!

Chapter 3- Breaking and Entry

The void echoed with the image of the Magister as it churned its way onwards. Inside the bedraggled and rustic cockpit stood the now assembled Delta Squad. Fixer was packing the last of his computer equipment into his backpack, whilst Sev tightened his thigh-straps. Scorch smiled smugly:

"Rule number 12- always be prepared."

"I call into play rule number 82," rumbled his pod-brother indignantly, and slapped his buckle to secure it.

"Uhm... Sev? There is no rule eighty-two," said Scorch with the air of someone who feels as if he's being forced into a trap.

"Sure there is," the reply came. "It's called 'We don't give a damn.'"

"Nah; both wrong," stated Boss as he replaced his vibro-blade, slotting the fine shard of metal into his wrist cavity. "There IS a rule 82. It's that the ranking Republic officer can put a stop to any argument between troops by any means he sees fit."

He waited for these words to sink in, looked to Fixer, who was already sniggering through a secure channel, and then looked back at Sev and Scorch. "This means that I can shut you up with as much prejudice as possible."

It was at this point that Boss decided to check if his vibro-blade was operational, and made an exaggerated punch into the air to his immediate left. The keen knife flew out with a frictionless _SSHHK_ and came to a blunt stop. The effect this had was profound, as the control room fell silent. Fixer, however, was now in hysterics, laughing into his airtight helmet over the com-link to Boss. Scorch absent-mindedly dropped a grenade, and closed his open mouth with a muffled pop.

"Boss? Are you serious?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, wont you?"

Oh-Seven brushed the threat aside: gullible as Scorch was, Sev was the cynic of the two. He smiled strongly and gave an 'Mm' of approvement.

"Why're we flying in this hunk o' junk anyway?" Came the next spoken thought from Scorch. "Couldn't we get a lift in style? Y'know... I mean, cool as they are, I'd hardly call a Corellian light freighter a limousine. "

It was the Pilot's turn to speak: cracking his knuckles with authority he turned in his well-oiled swivel chair and faced the team. "Simple. This ship doesn't have a republic energy signature for its engines, so the chances are that Separatist forces wont be on the look out for us. Besides, there isn't a faster ship around if you're in a pickle."

Scorch raised an eyebrow.

"It's like when you use the mud to hide your heat signature...," muttered Sev. "just before you strike, you make sure that your arrival is undetected... No-one knows you get in, no-one knows you get out," he licked his dry lips and pressed on: "Only life that's left is the birds to feed on the corpses..."

The ominous silence from earlier returned with full dissolution. Instead of remarking, however, Boss simply chose to ignore his psychotic partner and continued to listen to the pilot.

"The Republic literally contacted me out of the blue to fly you here. I was only meant to be on their turf because I had some extra information that they might want 'bout their base of operations. Of course, this info wasn't leavin' my lips for nothin. Know what I'm sayin'?

"What did you say your name was, anyway?" enquired Fixer. His voice was almost accusatory- he didn't like such abuse of the Republic's funds.

"I didn't," the pilot returned, and swivelled back to his control console. "We're approaching our destination. Visual contact in ten."

Boss and the squad took one last look around the cockpit- from the patterned windows to the four cracked and shrunken brown leather seats. They found their eyes drawn to the glistening pinpricks of light from the hundreds of buttons on the overhead controls as well as the dull chrome of the hyperspace levers. Something about the ship emanated warmth - it almost felt like home.

"Right, Deltas- let's form up and get to the airlock. Prepare for immediate space contact."

Boss's troops nodded curtly and exited the cockpit, making their way down the dark steel corridor to the ship's only current way out. Arriving quickly, Sev unbuckled the hologram generator and tossed it idly to the floor. Business as usual:

"Deltas," flowed the voice of Advisor from the device, "By now you will have reached your destination and will more than likely be ready to leave the ship. I'm here to remind you one last time of your objectives. They are: Destroy the communications tower, and scramble all sent records of Confederacy Technology. Reach and disable the Confederacy research laboratory. Lastly, disable the yard's engines. Remember: it is vit-"

"Yeah, we know," piped Scorch. "It's vital that we destroy the Com. Tower so that they don't bring in reinforcements."

The hologram of Advisor nodded. "Right you are, Six-Two. Heavy ordnance should do the trick."

If there was anything that Advisor could do well, it was make Scorch happy. Not that he wasn't good at everything else he did, but when you have the ability to allow Scorch to wield heavy weapons, you're already on the fast-lane to his friendship. Although the yellow demolition expert had his helmet on, they rest of the team had already guessed his face: it was one of blissful glee.

"Aye, Sir! Wont letcha down!"

It was Sev's turn to speak: "I don't like it. What's our point of entry?"

"Missile port. Similar to the Prosecutor Liberation. Any questions?"

Sev allowed another grumble: "On a scale of one to ten for difficulty, where does this lie? I'm not keen on taking anything below a nine these days."

Advisor nodded with owl authority: "It's enough, Oh-Seven. It's enough."

"All right, all right. Just wanted to know how many pieces of Scorch we're going to have to find afterwards..."

Fixer chose to interject at this moment, stopping any fights between Sev and Scorch in their tracks. Swinging his green patterned body in between the two, he held out his lanky arms in mild protest. "I believe, gentlemen, that it's time to leave. Let's pile in."

The hologram of Advisor faded away, the blue flickering sparks evaporating into the air. One last sentence echoed around the room: "Good luck, Deltas."

Boss pulled the release valve on the door, and motioned with his orange hand for the others to get in. They did as told, and ducked as they moved through the thick metal walls into what may have been a rubbish dispatch chute. Brown smears dotted the wall like gunfire whilst slug-trail grease stains wound their way like rivers across the floor. Even Scorch felt uncomfortable to touch the walls.

"Built in grime is one thing- this...is something else."

Boss checked all was ready, and allowed the doors to close. At the centre of the great iron barrier was a large wheel used to lock the doors manually: it twisted clockwise with a great shudder. No turning back.

"Hmm... I'm purrety sure these are blood stains, Boss..."

"Quiet, Scorch."

A flash of static and the room fell quiet:

"You guys ready?" Came the pilot's smooth voice, contradicted by the harsh tin reverberations of the communication system.

The response was unanimous, and the atmosphere depressurised. On the other side of the room, the second wheel began to spin on the airlock exit.

"Switch to com-systems, Deltas. Secure channel thirteen,"

"Right you are, Boss."

"Woosh! Having a cold shower is NOTHING compared to this. Activating external jets, Boss."

Three-Eight watched as Scorch rose from the ground, his yellow backpack now issuing a pale smoke from the bottom. On the other side of the room, the great black expanse waited; the mouth of the abyss flung wide. Copying Scorch's actions, Boss ignited his jets with a single thought. Already he could feel his intelligent suit preparing its systems for a confrontation- the link was there, in his neural chip. He was one with it, and it was a part of him. With a deftly wielded thought, he rose from the ground and turned with graceful precision.

"Follow my lead, boys."

A smooth back flip and a burst of flame later, Boss was out of sight, leaving a silky vapour trail for Delta Squad to follow.

XXX

Z9 PZA 575 flicked a few switches on his control desk. His chrome hands flashed as they interfaced with the controls, making no mistakes. He was a droid- such biological deficiencies such as operator errors were beneath him. Z9 PZA 575 shared the first 5 letters of his name with nearly 500 droid workers in his room. It was the main droid gunner's room- though but a small fraction of 575's brethren resided here, it was enough to defend the missile port of need be. After all, 500 battle droids were easily a match for whatever number of enemies that could breach the missile silo's relatively narrow sides. Five Seven Five's cruel talons continued their inorganic work. The job was monotonous: scan for ship's energy signatures every sixty seconds and see what comes up on the flat monitor. A slight glitch had appeared earlier, however, which was what the droid was investigating at the moment. All signs pointed to another rogue meteor. _That equals five for the current cycle..._ The droid's mind calculated.

The battle droid's clinical train of thought was interrupted. Interrupted by something moving. What he had first perceived to be a star was now hurtling towards him at great speed. Whilst the object seemed to pose no threat to the plexi-glass, it was enough for concern. The shooting star hit the glass with a dull thud, and the now obvious Scorch gave a nonchalant thumbs-up to the hapless worker. Scrambling almost clumsily up the window, Scorch pressed his legs against the immovable plexi-glass. _Not as agile as Shrapnel. _The spaceborne trooper considered, as he placed a demolition charge to the screen in front of him. _But it's certainly more amusing..._

It took only four seconds for the windows to be replaced by the massive iron blast-gates; their dirty golden sheen polluting the sterility of the ex-droid's quarters. Four seconds, however, was enough for the vacuum of space to extend its clammy grip and drag the room's occupants into the black beyond. As the room's atmosphere slipped in through the air ducts and flowed eagerly into place, the main entrance burned with an angry flame as the door's lock was breached, and the mobile walls slid back with a disturbing snap.

"Move!"

Delta Squad swept into the room, their guns raised high, their line of sight probing every inch of space. A storm of colour, the troopers made their way to the main control console that had so very recently been inhabited.

"Fixer- what of the alarms?" Enquired Boss as he activated the screen. Hull breaches caused any unnecessary consoles to shut down to minimise power usage, so booting up would take a few seconds.

"Already handled it. I bypassed the room's alarms before Scorch had even made contact with the glass..."

"Yes, well..." Mused Three-Eight to himself. "It certainly makes a change to the usual method of clearing a room of hostiles..."

"Mm. The jammer wont last forever though- deactivate the alarm once you've booted up."

A swish and a click later, Scorch entered the room. From his stance and the flick in his step, the others could tell he felt pleased with himself:

"Aaand... Done. So tell me- whose entrance was most bad ass?"

"Certainly not the guy who was mimicking a bug on a windscreen..."

"SEV!"


End file.
